from The Neverending Quest for the Other Shore

Runner-up of the 2014 Close Approximations contest for emerging translators (Poetry)

Sylvie Kandé

Ever since they row songless no heave-hoFor how long . . . to know . . . how many seasonshow many island mirages the wind will sowdid they row past pitch-drunk and swollen with spindriftA foggy memory of what-it-is-to-have-one's-feet-on-the-groundand eyelids flutteringthey heed nothing at present but the wave that goes slips away and returns

These peasants made themselves belated sailorstheir bodies cadence themto cleave with the oar's tainted tipthe purple mounds of the great salt savannahwhich no furrow markswhere no seed takes root (But to say the seaearthly words were little suited)At the point of the dreamthey were a myriadno less and no moreto cross the coral barrier in laughter with its vermilion flowers:there remain but three barks adriftfull so full to the point of capsizing

With paddling their arms have become paddleshard driven into their brown and knotted trunksand their salt-eaten feet are now no more than stumpsthat cleave to the hull with the agony of seven woundsIn their dizzying heights of suffering they yet find the strength to rowoh the arrogant zeal of those who know their deathapproaches and prefer to gaze beyond the certain

In the foremost boat they row in fine unison (barons and captive craftsmen and archers)a remaining bit of cola at the edge of their bitter lipsand without pauseaside from two buggers wallowing in the sentinewho cease to rumbleonly to hurl at the birdless cloud drooling imprecations:their folly just now brought forth noisily displays itselfAside also from the boy ever so youngwho the pitch of the sun consumes and scorches

Yet he had promised to his belovedto return with so much ease and lusterthat even his mediocrebirth would be forgotten and that he would make goodhis pretension to make of her at all costs his honorI shall last upon the water: when I return will you love me well . . .From the second boat the one on duty for the deadwill be requested to sink the childwith the slightest ceremonyor else a few prayers: it dependsTaciturn the other rowers are still pulling hardall the more firmly all the more supplythat effort no longer has an end for nowSuch torment in these trials

Here we were ourselves at firstrowing for our faith while standing tallfor the Manden and for our king most of allBata Manden Bori melodious in movementHe who is also called Abubakar the SecondHe who all beseech he who beseeches God alone

But now see him leave the stage at oncewhere he customarily rests balanced on one sideelbow bent holding his head in one handand curled up in one armpit an Abyssinian catthat can predict without failthe calm and the hurricanethe mist and the rainstormThere he is our prince who glideshis way through tatters shredded by the tidesinto the dais decked in our imperial colorsa fabric red and yellowsurmounted in gloryby his insignia: a broad and golden vulturewings volant close and lowered neckOurselves his loyal partisansheedful of his balancerelease although with great difficultythe bowstrings of our backs

But his prudent step is that of the gracile ibisindifferent so to speakto the infinite fracas of the surfHis drum is at his heels: she is a little woman(the flash of a ring upon each of her nimble fingers)with a voice that cuts the air like a vougeand slices the waves' black crest that stretches as far as the eye can seeWho better than you Simbonis worthy of the handsome name of hunter . . .Who else but you Lord of Quivers

Behind the bars of our lashesquestions and reasons do not leave off worrying at their chainswhile Abubakar to the prow advances and representsHis unbraided hair shines sargasso under gusts of windHis sweat-enfolding nostril takes in the ocean's foul breath(No doubt his tested honor measures too the depth of the abyss)would more deserve the name of voyagerengaged as you are with the waves in this furious commerce . . .For it is often that she (the sea) mountsher great horses barebackpiebald chargers that trample terrorrear up and bear down in full gallopThey would seem to struggle and entangle themselves again and againto run ragged with their fierce hoovesour last three tubs(But to say the sea words of war were little suited)

Racked with waiting as it wereourselves his crew are here from the firsta droplet of timesuspendedalongourpaddles

Ah these paddles let us speak of them (says she)But not before water has been poured for meto moisten the tellingno not before I have been servedhoney to sweeten my wordsThen were you as the beesof the Seven-Gated Kingdomthose raging bees whoin the midst of the slack seasonguard access to the wellstightly gathered in malignant hordes . . .What . . . Is that all that I am offered . . .Sons of avarice would you considerupon return to the Bright Landthat I should sing the deeds of those who keepfrom me the last three grains of millet stuckat the broken bottom of this great cofferto feed us yesterday today to whet our hunger . . .The giving hand is always above(so you believe) the open outstretched handAs for me I insult incense and deceive:I alone can say I wantby pointing to my desireThe gift pleases me yet does not oblige me

Add some more Yes do That's much betterNow that I tune my instrument:watch me rhyme as you rowfor our ancestorsfor Bata Manden Bori our beautiful sireand for the sons and daughters of the MandenManinyan that's me Nassita Maninyanthat's me all right at your serviceTo sing of heroes truly I excel(even disgrace and perjurywhere they're concernedI can cover them with a wordor a lovely turn of phrase)I name their names and laud their exploitsso that tomorrow they be not all forgottenFor history is a wicked stepmother when memoryis orphaned These oars I was saying a marvel:sculpted in iroko woodthey have ivory caps at one endAlong their shafts twist one iron and one copper wire:thus my story in which misery and grandeur mingleis entwined with your livesand carved into jagged destinies plunges themin the eddies of poetryand timeWho better than you Mali-koi . . .

[ . . . ]

At present they would rather be rowing:seventy passengersthat's seventy stouthearted soulsand seventy times two armswell not entirelyif you subtract the group of childrenunder the greasy tarp there in the middleHeaving waters shivering bells of bodies:how they would rather be rowingadding to each impulsethe splendor of the frayand the audacity of renewalBut they are here elbow to elbowstanding most oftensitting when possiblewhile casting at the sky twisted with pale contractionsa jaded and rheumy glanceFor here is the night giving birthany which waywasting no timeto an even uglier day than the last

Where has it gone of the first dawn at seathe bitter enchantment:a hasty departure (we had to chase the ebb tide)that quietly takes shape as a voyagesurprise of eyes adjusting to salt and to windsourness of armpits where little by littlefear and its trickling dries upthe spirit (free no but) disentangled from the everyday . . .Oh here and there a few sobs were indeed heard(but to weigh renunciationa tear will never measure up)The water had its motives and they were clear:we know I know we nowhave our reason-for-being-on-Earthand it is in boarding this shipAnd in that osprey wavering overheadlike the flickering promise of returnAlassane then or else was it Maguett . . .balancing on a barrelwas singing in a head voicethat outsang the motor

But this morning it's awful coldto watch the nothingthe nothing at allthe naught and nothingnessthat heaves about oneselfOn the seventh day there is no celebrationand especially not the birth of the day—besides where I ask you would we pray . . . If I make safe harbor I'll pay it back for sure

Too late too soon to regret itTen days like this we were promisedten days onlyAnd what's a week rightin the life of a loser . . .Bargain price for a friend—yet your life isn't worth a bean:you eat and you prate but you hardly earn a thingAmbition you've got but not what it takeshere nobody buys your nickel's worth of dreamsThere things are better: throw a seed awayand in the time it takes to turn aroundI swear it sprouts and growsAnyway dollar for dollar and oar for oarone ought to have a goal

One evening I was bumming around on the shoredisturbing one cackling quarry after anotheras they were feeding on some leftover fish—careful not to slip on any entrailsanxious to find my former bliss againbefore the gold-tinged bouquets of a glorious sunsetThe horizon as far as I recall itwas blocked by an enormous trawlerforcing the sun into the backgroundWhose fault is it that fish have grown scarceand our multiple excursions all the more vain . . .The fishermen's litanies were interruptedby harangues from tardy gossiperswhose sharp nails weighed the fry on display While they upbraided the menfor being unworthy of the seaall of a sudden it seemed to meson of a talent thrown upon the shorethey took their fingers' scornto spread apart the gills of mein order to assess my agonyas dubiously fresh

A liar pointed to the sea with one slender handconstruing the puddle I wet my toes inYou'll come back rich as sinwith simply giant baggageand a mound of coffersRay-Bans to keep your intentions under wrapsand a contemptuous smoke at your lipYou'll be the talk of the townwhen they see you build endowwed and baptize build againNot to mention day and nightnever will your home be emptyof requests of praises and of invitationsIndeed a ship was being made ready at the appointed placeand as one might expect there was only one spot leftTake your chance by the horns: it won't take its timeSo I took the sea lightlywithout a penny a crust of bread a prayerwith neither bells nor whistles without warning—just this fully charged celland a can in one pocket witha safara inside macerated for the occasionby an ace in prophylactics and protectionsa real tamer of reversals of fortuneNot for the sake of leather nor for the tinted glassesbut for the sake of the gesture that gave to each of us(we ourselves neither flesh nor fishinnards castupon the slimy millennial sand)the singular stature of a person

[ . . . ]

(Yet what is a voyagebut the union of mirage and impatience . . .)And to say we might have rowedbacks broken and wrists hard at workTo draw with our bound bodies a perfect parabolaTo trace a trajectory from the minute changes in our infinitely repeated gesturesAnd to say we might have rowed to cheat the waves rowed just to kill timeand to thumb our nose at death

Exhausted the boy crumples to the planksand the book of tall tales he calls his journalwill roll beneath a bench where it ends up drenchedBut is it not the insistent sirenof a patrol boat we're hearing from far off . . .No time to turn aroundbefore it draws up beside us fast as a moray eeland towers over us (redundant white wall of buoysradar megaphone ship's rail and airtight cabin)promptly ending our excursionSo Alassane or is it Yacine . . .begins to hum a little riddleand meaning no harm he butchers the originalLiberty security and justice are in a boatLiberty and justice fall into the waterGuess what oh guess what could possibly be left . . .

We help those who are not deadmerely paralyzed to cross the gangwayHere they are on deck where tents have been raisedwith water medicine and blanketsWell To the misfortune of others we are soon accustomed Now stretchers are made readyfor the brotherhood of pecked-out eyesA nice catch of the more-stiff-than-kippereddrowned caught in the wake of our raftwhich is full of leaks One must admit we stick in thereThese float unable to join the old oneswho have sunk to the bottom of the drinkwhile we brush over their exploitstheir hell their torment their america that isDrag this wreck to port in all hastebut let us drain her firstTow her forward and don't spare the hawserA hunt for scrap and off to the cemetery:there's another one won't harm its people anymoreStill one or two dailies will publish its photo:saddened two amateur sailors inspect the nacellethat offends the beach before it is scrappedTourism Threatenedreads the newspaper's headline

So here we are safe and sound as they sayexcept that Alassane or is it another by that namerefuses categorical to leave the boatHe's still sitting on the ship's beakhe's swinging his feet and shaking his headcomposing his rhymes and monologuesIncidentally we know him wellhe never did do daily life so well(but isn't that the mark of the hero . . .)and he's said to soar far above our triflesWe were still boarding the patrol boatwhen I heard him hiss my watchword: Big brotherwhat'll you bet they won't see me . . .He stands and makes as if to dancegestures and winds up his armsbungles and tramps like the fettered albatross:a true pantomime for sure What'll you betthey won't see me go by . . .No-one the wiser wool over your eyesLater I'll catch you in the cityAnd there he goes and takes a corkscrew diveleaving his boonie hanging on the rostrumLook: there he is between the sky and the seabetween salt and sprayDisappears then surfaces again with a wave of his handHe who has eyesNot true there's no doubt: that spot out thereLet him see Say he's ahead of usCould be the lucky bastard's arrived alreadyBy now he will have reached the shorethat is to say if the shore is for himEveryone gets his own chancebut all those with a bit of senseenvy that which he's been givenAlassane if I say heroit's because you closed the voyagesThus it is time at present for the word to make port

Sylvie Kandé's Neverending Quest For the Other Shore juxtaposes two symmetrical tales: that of the mythical voyage of an African king toward the New World, and that of the voyage of clandestine immigrants from Africa to Europe. The story of the immigrant, Kandé's tale suggests, bears the mark of the hero just as authentically as that of the African king.

The Quest offers the admirable wager that a heroically stylized language remains possible today, and that the figure of the hero remains relevant and indeed necessary. But Kandé is lucid about the ambiguities and risks of such a project: she takes care not to elide the complexities of these problematic heroes, and those of contemporary life; the story must be one "in which misery and grandeur mingle," just as these are mingled in our lives.

Both voyages involve the hero's démesure, his pride and excess: the dreams of both the African king and his contemporary counterpart display a close kinship to delusion. Sometimes, the immigrant's dream takes the shape of a heroic quest to realize one's full human potential and to acquire a name, to reach "the singular stature of a person." But the immigrant also risks being the dupe of false promises, those of his own hopes and illusions: the man who sells him his space on the boat to Europe is, very naturally, a liar, full of hollow tales of future glamor. The African king's dream of rich new lands to conquer is no more realistic; grandeur and folly appear nearly indistinguishable.

Illusion is woven into the very shape of the narrative. While the figure of the old woman appears early in the narrative as the storyteller, her story paradoxically corresponds to the very voyage in which she herself apparently participates. She is both inside and outside the story she tells. And like a kind of mirage, she ultimately recedes as one voice among many others: those of the immigrants themselves, who dominate the third canto. Like the epic of antiquity, the story is a kind of tapestry that does not strictly speaking belong to the storyteller; it has a necessary collective dimension.

Accordingly, the language of the Quest is extremely diverse and rich, ranging from archaism and classical syntactic inversions to contemporary slang and mass cultural allusions. Ray-Bans make an appearance, but so does the language of medieval heraldry. A few "modern" calligramme-like typographical figures occur, as do the timeworn French alexandrine or decasyllable. Yet the result, remarkably, everywhere maintains a unity of style and rhythm. Despite and against the contradictions of our contemporary moment, Kandé successfully reinvents the lofty style of the epic.

Sylvie Kandé is a Franco-Senegalese writer of poetry and fiction. Her first book, Lagon, lagunes, was praised by the renowned Francophone writer Edouard Glissant, while her second, La Quête infinie de l'autre rive: épopée en trois chants, was a finalist for two French literary awards, the Mahogany Prize and the Prix des Découvreurs. The work also appeared on the practice exam of the French baccalaureate. This is the first lengthy translation of Sylvie's work to appear in English.

Alexander Dickow is associate professor of French at Virginia Tech. He is a writer in French and English, a translator, and a scholar of modern and contemporary French and Francophone literature, as well as being the author of Caramboles (Paris: Argol Editions, 2008), a collection of poems in French and English; Rhapsodie curieuse (Mugron, France: Louise Bottu, 2017), a hybrid work in French; and Trial Balloons (Corrupt Press, 2012), a chapbook in English. A new collection, Appetites, is forthcoming from MadHat Press in 2018. His scholarly works include Le Poète innombrable: Blaise Cendrars, Guillaume Apollinaire, Max Jacob (Paris: Hermann, 2015) and Jacob et le cinéma (Paris: Nouvelles Editions Jean-Michel Place, forthcoming in November 2017). A translation by Dickow and Sean T. Reynolds of works by the Swiss poet Gustave Roud is forthcoming from Seagull Books in 2018. Alexander Dickow is originally from Moscow, Idaho.